


Lines of Communication

by hylian_reptile



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Post-Season 15, Red Team Family - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 14:57:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13149069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hylian_reptile/pseuds/hylian_reptile
Summary: In all these many years of Lopez being pissed off at his crimson human cohorts, Grif pretending to be monolingual really takes the cake.





	Lines of Communication

**Author's Note:**

> For not-so-serious-wastebasket on tumblr! Written for the RvB Secret Santa 2017 event.

In all these many years of Lopez being pissed off at his crimson human cohorts, Grif pretending to be monolingual _really_ takes the cake.

 

Grif, to the eyes of the rest of Red Team, has inexplicably and suddenly developed a fondness for carrying around Lopez’s disembodied head under his gross, sweaty armpit, which irritates Sarge because Sarge can’t make a new body without the head. Donut thinks it’s morbid. Simmons becomes _even more_ self-conscious about sharing anything sensitive in Lopez’s presence, which Lopez tells Grif is only going to shoot himself in the foot, if Grif’s “carry Lopez’s bodiless head around” tactic is Grif’s new means of tugging at Simmons’s metaphorical pigtails.

 

Grif just chuckles and pats Lopez’s head and tells Simmons, “I wonder what he’s always talking about, y’know? Not that I’d know, because I don’t speak Spanish!”

 

Simmons looks at Grif confusedly. Lopez insults Grif and Grif’s mother and Grif’s sister and the metaphorical horse Grif rode in on. Grif later “accidentally” drops Lopez’s head in a urinal.

 

In retaliation, Lopez told Grif that the fuse breaker was about to blow just when Simmons was just _inches_ away from admitting that he’d absolutely totally cried like a baby when Grif left the team, and Grif hopped right up without even bothering to finish his conversation with Simmons to check the fuse breaker so the entire base didn’t, y’know, fucking explode. He found the fuse box was entirely fine. He never listened to Lopez’s mechanical advice ever again.

 

Later, the fuse box actually did explode, and then everyone blamed Lopez for not fixing it. Even though he doesn’t even have a _body,_ let alone _hands._

 

Lopez. Hates. _Everything._

 

But _particularly_ Grif not admitting he knows Spanish.

 

Today, Lopez is keeping up a running commentary of Sarge’s conversation with Grif in the hopes that Grif will finally crack: “ _(Look, he still has shaving cream stuck to his neck),_ ” Lopez says. Grif doesn’t react at all. “ _(I heard that Sarge is working on having a six pack again. He refused beer last night because he’s trying to get rid of his dad bod.)_ ”

 

Grif snorts, which is the most reaction Lopez has ever gotten out of him. Sarge doesn’t even notice.

 

“ _(I heard that Sarge made such a dirty pun last night that even Donut was scandalized)_ ,” Lopez tells Grif. “ _(Something about “hello horny, I’m dad’)._ ”

 

No reaction. _None._ For god’s sake.

 

“ _(I saw him making bedroom eyes at his own shotgun)_ ,” Lopez tries again.

 

Sarge keeps talking. Grif looks increasingly delighted, which Sarge takes as interest in his ongoing rant about the details of turning their washing machine into a Blue-detecting booby-trap.

 

“ _(Sarge was an ugly wreck when they left you behind on the moon)_ ,” Lopez says.

 

Grif chokes on air. Sarge frowns at Grif.

 

“Are you dying?” Sarge asks. “Have I finally gotten my wish? Are you going to spontaneously combust into a pile of burning lard?”

 

“I coughed,” Grif replies dryly. “Hey, don’t you need a flamethrower for your Blue-killing washing machine?”

 

Sarge straightens up. “You’re right! Absolutely! Oh, I’ve got a spare one in the closet—”

 

And the second Sarge vanishes around the corner, Grif rounds on Lopez.

 

“Tell me what happened,” Grif demands.

 

“ _(I thought you didn’t speak Spanish)_ ,” Lopez retorts.

 

“It’s a joke, Lopez, c’mon, I’ll tell them eventually!”

 

Lopez raises his eyebrows. “ _(Really?)_ ”

 

“Yes, really!”

 

“ _(You’ll tell them?)_ ” Lopez asks, still suspicious.

 

“Yes, I will, I promise!”

 

Hmm. That’s a deal that Lopez could sign up for.

 

* * *

 

 

Thirty minutes after the Reds and Blues had left behind the moon base and that fat traitorous fuck, and Lopez had been settling into his chair for a nice lower power-down, Sarge kept opening his mouth and then closing it again and going back to his shotgun and looking around. Eventually, Lopez groaned.

 

“ _(He’ll come back)_ ,” Lopez had snapped irritably. “ _(It’s not like you’re never seeing him again, you big baby)._ ”

 

Sarge had started, then harrumphed and sat up straighter. “Who, me? Worried? Nonsense! Grif can stay there until the food and water’s gone and he dies!”

 

Simmons, who’d been sitting on the opposite side of the seating area, bolted upright. “Wait—wait, would he—?”

 

“ _(Chorus sends a shipment of food every month, dumbass.)_ ”

 

“Uhhhhhhhhh,” Sarge had said. “Prrrrrrrrrrrrobably not?”

 

“Chorus sends a shipment of food every month,” Washington had called from the front.

 

Simmons had sat back in his seat. He didn’t look any less worried. He apparently decided to mediate his stupid human feelings by doing nothing about them but staring out the window like a lovelorn cliche.

 

“Oh!” said Sarge. “Well, that’s… disappointing, I guess, that I won’t be able to realize my dream of seeing Grif die…?”

 

He trailed away. Donut had opened his mouth, visibly gave it up as a lost cause, and closed his mouth. Possibly the only good call Donut has ever made in his whole life.

 

“ _(You should have dragged him with you)_ ,” Lopez had said. _“(Do you know what you’ve fucking done, leaving a human being in complete isolation on a moon by himself? You’d be lucky if he forgives you. You’d be luckier still if he doesn’t realize that isolation is a type of torture)._ ”

 

“It’s fine,” Sarge grunted. “He’ll be fine. Everything’s fine.”

 

“ _(Not without your favorite punching bag, it won’t be)_ ,” Lopez had said darkly. “ _(And without you to resent, it won’t be fine for him, either)_.”

 

“And he’s been on Red Team for over ten years,” Sarge went on. “All that time! Obviously, we’ve definitely resolved everything and said everything we could possibly say.”

 

Simmons shrank further down in his seat. Donut pulled out a music player to shove over his ears so he doesn’t have to listen to this shit.

 

“ _(Good to know)_ ,” Lopez had said, tetchily.

 

“We understand each other, like proper men. We are most definitely, completely on the same page as each other, and there was no miscommunications whatsoever.”

 

Lopez didn’t even respond.

 

Donut folded his hands in his lap and picked at his nails.

 

Simmons stared out the window for three hours.

 

Sarge sat and listened to Blue Team snipe at each other in the front seat and held his shotgun loose in one hand. Lopez had gotten his wish and Sarge didn’t talk to Lopez again.

 

* * *

 

 

“Really?” Grif says.

 

“ _(Yes, really)_ ,” Lopez says.

 

“I don’t believe you,” Grif says.

 

“ _(Why would I lie about this)_ ,” Lopez says.

 

“I--I don’t know! Maybe you’re just telling me what I want to hear--or, uhhh, you’re just telling me what you _think_ I want to hear—”

 

“ _(Smooth recovery)_ ,” Lopez says.

 

“ _Maybe_ ,” Grif says, quite firmly, “you’re telling me shit because you think I’ll be more likely to keep my promise about telling the guys that I can speak Spanish, okay? I dunno!”

 

“ _(No, you already promised)_ ,” Lopez says. “ _(I’ve already gotten what I want. I’m just telling you the facts.)_ ”

 

Grif, nowadays, shows his emotions more easily on his face, like something about his time alone on the moon base had cracked him wide open like a geode. At the current moment, Grif’s newly-broken geode-heart-on-his-sleeve is glittering distress like a disco ball.

 

“ _(Would you prefer I told you that nobody on your team gave a shit about you when you left?)_ ” Lopez says. “ _(Would it be safer and easier to know that nobody cared if you lived or died?)_ ”

 

“Shut it,” Grif snaps, which sounds to Lopez like Grif ran out of witty safeguards.

 

“ _(Don’t believe me?)_ ” Lopez says, smugly. “ _(You can ask Sarge yourself.)_ ”

 

“I could never ask Sarge—”

 

“Ask me what?” Sarge grunts.

 

Sometimes, life is the fucking pits for Lopez. Really just the worst. Nothing comes together and he never gets what he wants. _Other_ times, the universe is good and kind and understanding Lopez’s two-inch-long patience and general despair in humanity and delivers Sarge directly behind Grif, cradling his newly-aquired flamethrower, just when Grif is apparently having a conversation with a robot who only speaks a language he doesn’t understand.

 

Explain _that_ , Grif.

 

Grif visibly mentally blanks. Sarge frowns. “And why’re you talking to Lopez? You know he doesn’t understand you!”

 

“ _(Yeah, Grif)_ ,” Lopez jeers, “ _(why_ are _you talking to me?)_ ”

 

Grif clears his throat. “Uh, um…”

 

“Is this a trap,” Sarge says immediately. “What did you do while I was gone.”

 

“Nothing, nothing!” Grif says. He’s got a slightly unsteady look in his eyes, which probably doesn’t reassure Sarge at all. “It’s just… well, Sarge, I heard recently…”

 

Here it comes, Lopez thinks. Here it comes, at long last; Grif admits that he _can_ speak Spanish, and finally, at fifteen years, these scarlet douchebags can stop ignoring Lopez, and more importantly, Grif will stop looking like a kicked dog whenever someone brings up the moon base thing—

 

“...that you’ve finally posted more cat videos on Basebook than Wash,” Grif says.

 

“ _(YOU IDIOT)_ ,” Lopez shrieks.

 

“--never do such a thing!” Sarge hollers. “Everyone knows that it’s impossible to out-post Agent Washington in cat videos! I don’t even like cat videos! Why would I ever enjoy watching fluffy creatures with only minor defensive capabilities with large soulful eyes fail at silly things for hours on end—”

 

* * *

 

 

LOPEZ WAS _SO FUCKING CLOSE._

 

* * *

 

 

“ _(YOU STUPID PIECE OF SMUG ASSHOLE—)_ ”

 

“Relax, Lopez,” Grif says, later, in the safety and seclusion of the empty training gym. Easy for Grif to say Lopez should relax, since Grif looks increasingly relaxed the angrier Lopez gets.

 

“ _(You’re right)_ ,” Lopez says. “ _(I should go back to not giving a single fuck about anyone here. In fact, I retroactively rescind any fucks I may have given. I now have never given a single fuck about anyone on this god-forsaken team)_.”

 

“Man, it’s such a shame we never got to talk earlier, Lopez,” Grif says. “That’s honestly the most relatable thing I’ve heard in a while.”

 

“ _(I particularly rescind any fucks I gave about you)_ ,” Lopez snaps.

 

“Chill, Lopez,” Grif says, leaning back against the weight rack. “The language thing is a one-time joke, y’know? Once I admit I know Spanish, I can never do the prank again. I’ll tell them _eventually_. But until then, it’ll be our fun little secret.”

 

“ _(I AM NOT HAVING FUN. TAKE ME BACK TO THE SCARY BILINGUAL HANDSOME MURDERER WITH THE PRETTY ALIEN AI SHIP)_.”

 

“What was that, Lopez?” Grif says cheerfully. “I don’t understand. You know I don’t speak Spanish.”

 

“ _(ONCE I HAVE MY BODY BACK, IT’S OVER FOR YOU, PUNY HUMAN)_.”

 

“Cool, glad we had this talk,” says Grif, and tucks Lopez back under his gross, sweaty armpit.

 

“ _(I’m not)_ ,” Lopez says, just to be grumpy, because he _is_ grumpy. Grif pats Lopez’s head patronizingly

 

But Grif seems a little relieved, just a bit, and Lopez maybe didn’t rescind every fuck he’s ever given about Grif. It’s perhaps not the worst thing in the world for Grif to know that his team missed him.

 

He’ll just have to wait for Grif to hold up his end of the deal.


End file.
